Jack called it The Hotel, and so did everyone
else in the county--half
the county worked there. The huge white buildings, surrounded by
manicured lawns, flower gardens and golf courses, covered a whole
valley. As a teenager, Jack had caddied there and, like caddies
everywhere, learned to play golf after work. Jack knew most
everyone there on a first-name basis: the doormen, the porters,
the desk clerks, the assistant managers, the waiters, the chefs, the
maids, the golf and tennis pros, the spa people, the grooms, the
gun-club people--and the doctors. The Greenbrier has a
world-class diagnostic clinic. Jack bartered his guiding of a
spring turkey hunt for his annual pilot's physical.
As Jack drove home from The Greenbrier Clinic
following his check-up,
he reflected on what the doctors had said. That night he called
Doc in South Dakota.
"Doc, I've decided to quit field trials. David
and I are coming
up to work with you this summer, but when the prairie trials are over
I'm through with trials. I want to go out of the game still a
winner, not a has been."
"I understand. When are you coming?"
"We leave the tenth."
This would be Jack's second summer at Doc's South
Dakota ranch, and my
first. Doc had already eased back into medicine part-time,
volunteering at the Public Health Service hospital on the Crow Creek
Reservation north of Chamberlain. Doc couldn't sleep
the night after Jack's call. Next morning he
called Jack back.
"Jack, how about if I fly down for a visit this
"Why, sure, that would be great," Jack said.
"I'll get us a tee
time at the Upper Cascades, and the water's right for a float on the
Doc waited for the float trip on the last day of his
visit to bring it
up. Their canoe glided down the green water, both men working
flies around the riffles in easy rhythm; I floated down behind them in
an inner tube.
"Jack, you know we've always shared one dream.
You and Dad shared
it too. I've got a plan to make it come true. I don't want
your answer until the end of summer. If you’re willing to do it,
I’ll cover the expenses--we'll do it as partners. You'd only be
campaigning one dog."
With that introduction, Doc laid out his plan to win
the National Bird
Dog Championship. They would search for a dog with the
potential. To qualify the dog, they would need two first place
wins in major circuit trials, a huge hurdle. If and when they got
their dog qualified, they would train just for the National's grueling
three-hour heat, a heat few dogs could even complete.
"Pipe dream" was Jack's response, uttered as he
dropped a fly below a
riffle and hooked a three-pound smallmouth.
We made it to South Dakota on July 15. Doc's
leases in the
Missouri breaks bore natural prairie grass a plow had never
turned. To the west, on fertile, flat plateaus grew wheat,
millet, corn, safflower and flax and endless fields of alfalfa.
Pheasants and Hungarian partridge congregated around the crops.
Sharptail grouse thrived in the natural prairie.
Homesteader cabins and farmhouses stood abandoned along the lonely
roads; most of the farmers and ranchers lived in town now. Only a
few tough souls braved the harsh range winters to feed and water the
cattle. They said -50º with forty-mile winds was common, but
that was hard for me to believe, because in summer at midday the
prairie was an oven.
We settled into a routine--up before daylight, the
first two or three
hours after dawn for horseback work, then yard work on the puppies at
midday, and another three hours in the saddle in the cool of late
evening. The daylight lasted late, and we used all of
it. On my first prairie morning Jack handed me a pair
of needle-nose pliers.
"What are they for?" I asked.
"You'll know when you need 'em," was Jack's only
I carried the pliers in my pocket for awhile, but
uncomfortable, and when I hadn't needed them in a couple of weeks, I
left them on the dresser. Then one morning as I check corded a
pup, a young pheasant flew to a weedy garden patch beside an abandoned
house. I released the pup to chase and build enthusiasm.
The pup tried to climb the garden fence to get to the pheasant; a rear
foot went under one strand of wire, over another; the pup fell over the
top, and its foot was snared. The pup yelped in pain as the
twisting wire tightened, leaving it suspended, its front feet off the
ground. As I ran to the pup I suddenly knew why Jack had given me
the pliers. The pup was wild with pain. I grabbed for its collar
to lift it
and release the wire’s pressure; in panic it bit my hand; blood
spurted. Finally I managed a grip and eased the pressure, but
still I could not free the pup. Jack, working another pup nearby,
heard the commotion, and came to cut the wire with his pliers.
The pup limped off.
"Where are your pliers?" Jack asked.
"I left them on the dresser."
Jack didn't say another thing--just looked at
me. He poured
peroxide from his saddle bag on my bite wound.
"Take the truck and find Doc –he’ll give you an
And take that pup to the vet--looks like he's injured a tendon."
Fortunately, the pup's tendon was only stretched,
recovered. I wouldn't be without my pliers
again. One late afternoon, Jack and I worked a
year-old pointer puppy named
Jake from horseback.
"I love the way Jake is always swapping ends when he
point. That's got to get a judge's eye," I
said. Jack smiled ruefully.
"With dogs as with people, things ain't always as
they seem. That
swappin' ends looks exciting. But when a dog does it all the
time--and it looks like Jake is one that does--it's a sure sign of a
short nose. A dog with a good nose gets scent in time to stop
without swappin' ends; a weak-nosed one runs past the bird before the
scent registers in his noggin."
Jack was always worrying about ruining dogs’ noses
prairies. In the heat and low humidity, it could happen in a
minute. Jack explained that if the dog got too hot the blood
vessels in its nose would swell, scar tissue would form, and scenting
ability would disappear. Jack insisted on short training heats,
frequent watering from the plastic detergent bottles we carried on our
saddles. If a dog got hot, he would roll it on its back and wet
its chest to cool it.
The summer passed like a comet. On a Wednesday
mid-August, Doc, Jack and I sat on the porch, studying listings of
upcoming trials in the American Field, debating which to enter.
Then Doc phoned in our entries to three trial secretaries.
After these prairie trials, only one trial dog would
Jack's tutelage, the dog selected for the campaign for the National
Championship. The prospect for the Big One would be Halifax Flip,
my dog, now owned in a three-way partnership by Doc, Jack and me.
Doc was the money partner; Jack would supply the expertise; I supplied
Flip. For his and Jack's shares, Doc paid me enough for my first
half-year of college, and I put it in my savings account, after paying
Jack the rest of what I owed him on the runaway pointer.
The year before, Flip had spent his first summer
running loose and
exploring Doc's barns and pastures. Returning this summer for his
derby season, he had quickly responded to prairie training. Jack
and I already knew from workouts at home that he was going to be a big
runner. Here on the prairie he yipped with glee at the start of
each workout, ran wide and fast before the horses, always in a
determined search for birds. He naturally approached bluffs
downwind, head high, and he found and pointed birds with breathtaking
style. In the derby stakes of the prairie trials,
Flip proved a hard-luck
dog. In his maiden stake he took on a porcupine. When the
quills hit him square in the face, he went into shock. Doc always
carried medical basics in his saddlebags, and the habit saved Flip's
life that day. With the shock counteracted by an injection, we
got Flip to a veterinarian, who put Flip to sleep and removed the
painful barbed quills with surgical tweezers. Fortunately Flip's
eyes and larynx escaped the needles, but dozens pierced his face and
nose, his tongue and the inside of his mouth. Flip's next
disaster was amusing, except to Jack and the judge. He pointed a
skunk that reacted to Jack's flushing attempt in the way you'd
expect. On his third prairie try, he jumped a sleeping coyote and
chased it five miles over the horizon. With the last prairie
trial approaching, Flip had no placements.
Flip had come naturally to be staunch on point and
to remain steady
until birds were flushed. But Jack had not hurried to train Flip
to remain on point as the birds flew. "Watch a derby
close, and he'll write you a letter to tell you when
he's ready to be broke," the sage old trainer John Gardner had often
said. Like Gardner, Jack was not one to rush to break a promising
pupil. When Jack decided Flip's time had come, he and I left ranch
headquarters early on a Sunday morning with Flip and our horses.
We didn't return until dark. The next evening, Doc came with us.
Flip pointed at the edge of a brushy coulee, and Jack flushed a brace
of pheasants; the cock cackled as it flew up a draw. Flip stayed
on point, remaining tense until Jack walked to him and rubbed his
shoulders. Only then did Flip relax and wag his tail to signal
"Well," said Doc, "you've finally done it. He
looks good--no let
down at the flush. When are you ever going to show me how you do
"When you're old enough I'll let you know," Jack
In the final trial of the prairie season, Flip
placed first in the open
derby and, to everyone's amazement, first in the one-hour open all-age
stake. Because derbies are seldom entered in fall all-age stakes,
this news quickly spread through the fraternity. One of the
judges was Roy Fry, who said, "I haven't seen a setter run like that
since Flaming Star in '72." (Star was a legend among field
trialers, remembered for his huge prairie races in 90_ plus weather.)
Jack handled dogs with deft showmanship, and
techniques. This showmanship could influence judgments in a close
case. Judges and spectators looked forward to Jack's performances
as much as his dogs'. Jack showed confidence in his
dog. This attitude made a
difference to the dog and to the judges. It could also unnerve an
opposing handler. Jack always rode slowly, right up in front of
the judges. That made it appear his dog was going extra wide,
which was what you wanted. It also showed you weren't afraid of
your dog running off on you. But Jack's trademark was the way he
handled the dog after a find and flush.For sixty years judges have
accepted an awkward procedure following a
find: the handler returns to his motionless dog, grasps its
collar and leads it away. Then the scout brings up the handler's horse,
and the two make an exchange--the handler taking his horse's reins from
the scout, the scout taking a secure collar-hold on the dog.
After the handler has remounted, the scout releases the dog with the
handler in the dog's field of view. This technique was devised in
the 1930's by a savvy young amateur
handler from Virginia named Parke Brinkley. Parke figured it
would minimize disqualifying mishaps, so he tried it. To his
amazement, judges did not object. Before Parke's innovation, the
handler sought no assistance from his scout in the transition after a
find. He simply left his dog on point, remounted and signaled the
dog by voice or whistle to resume the hunt. Under the old
technique, the dog, subject to distraction by the milling gallery or
the handler's remounting, sometimes bumped a "sleeper" bird, lost its
composure and chased. Parke Brinkley's technique assured that the
dog would be in tight control until the chance for such a mishap had
passed. If a sleeper rose, the dog, its collar still clutched by
handler or scout, could not chase, and thus could not be blamed and
Jack disdained the modern method and took no
assistance from his scout
after a find. Like a matador turning his back to the bull, Jack
remounted with his dog still steady on point, then heeled it back onto
the course, and whistled the shrill "all ahead full." On this
command his dog took off as if shot from a cannon. If a sleeper
bird rose, Jack's dog usually reacted appropriately with a "stop to
wing," resuming point on first sight or hearing of the sleeper in the
air. This maneuver impressed judges, for "stop to wing" is the
most difficult of reactions to instill in a dog, a telling sign of
training polish. When Jack did this successfully with Flip in his
first all-age stake, it was mentioned in the reporter's write-up in the
After that last prairie trial, Jack and I drove home
Virginia. Through the fall, Jack and Flip occasionally traveled
to meet Doc at a major circuit trial. I went back to the routine
of school and my farm chores. In the time we had left, Jack and I
trained gun dogs to make money. At the last minute we
decided to enter Flip in a trial at Hoffman,
North Carolina, Thanksgiving weekend. Doc flew in to meet
us. Flip didn't place in the derby, but won first in the all-age.
Jack said, "You know, Doc, this makes Flip eligible for the National in
February." Until then we hadn't dreamed Flip would be eligible before
Jack and Doc planned to go from Hoffman to Homer's
Texas ranch, and I
was to return to the farm. I wanted to go to Texas too, but that
would mean missing too much school. So I got a ride home to West
Virginia with a trainer from Pennsylvania, and Jack and Doc lit out for
Texas. My school was to let out December 20, and then I would fly
to Texas to join them. On the 19th Doc and Jack called.
"David, we want you to fly into Lubbock instead of
got a hot spell in South Texas, so we're going to work in West Texas
instead--its high and cool out there, and Homer’s got a connection with
a ranch there and a friend who’ll supply us good horses. We'll
meet you at the Lubbock Airport," Doc said.
They gave me the flight numbers and times, said I
tickets at the Dallas Airport. Sure enough, they were waiting
with Flip at heel when I got off the plane at Lubbock. The west
Texas country I'd seen out the airplane window on the approach to
Lubbock was desolate as the moon. From the Lubbock
Airport, we rolled east on a ruler-straight two-laner,
through rough range country, then flat fields stretching to the
horizons, red and bare except for last summer’s dried-up cotton plants
that reminded of tiny soldiers lined up at attention. Flip rode
beside me on the second seat of the dually pickup, watching the passing
scene out the window like a human. Occasionally we met a battered
pickup, its driver always wearing a Stetson and lifting some part of
his hand from the wheel in languid greeting. We made bets on the
number of fingers each driver would raise. Here and there
irrigation rigs stretched across the cotton fields like giant praying
mantises. The rivers we crossed were dry gulches.
"Where you suppose they get the water for those
irrigation rigs?" Jack
"Artesian wells," Doc said.
As we neared Turkey, our destination two hours east
stretches of scrubby rangeland fit like patches on a quilt between the
bare cotton fields. Occasionally we passed a windmill and
stock-watering tank with a few head of mottled mixed-breed cattle
loafing nearby, marked with the shoulder hump of the Brahma cross.
"They breed cattle out here for ugly," Jack said.
"They're ugly, but they can make a living on
sagebrush where your Angus
cows would die in a week from starvation or heat or cold or snakebite,"
"Or heartbreak," Jack said.
The little towns we passed through seemed just
alike, broad streets a
few blocks long, storefronts boarded up, only convenience stores or
Dairy Queens open for business.
"This country's an awful lot like West Virginia,"
"Yeah," Doc said. "Fewer folks here than there
used to be, and
there never were many. Couple fellows with a big tractor and a
cotton picker can look after what it used to take fifty hands to tend."
After miles without a curve through Dickens and
Matador, a huge wrought
iron sign by the road greeted us:
WELCOME TO TURKEY
Home of Bob Wills
Silhouettes of turkeys--in flight, grazing, and
perched on the limbs of
pine trees--surrounded the message. We passed a tiny
Tex-Mex cafe, an Allsups Convenience Store, a lot
filled with discarded farm equipment. The town's five cross
streets, one paved, were marked by other artful signs crafted by the
blacksmith: a fiddler, a guitar man, a cowboy roper on
horseback. The houses were small prefabs and mobile homes, the
lawns grassless clay. At the edge of town, a little
grassy park held a pink marble
spike. We walked out to inspect the monument, Flip at heel.
"Why, there's ol' Bob," Jack said. Sure
enough, the pink granite
bore an etching of the smiling face of Bob Wills, inventor of western
swing and star of B-westerns of the thirties, forties and
fifties. Lyrics of Bob's songs were etched in the marble around
his likeness. Jack hummed, "Faded love . . . ."
Driving through town we had spotted a sign, "Historic Western
Hotel--One Block This Way." We drove back to check it out.
It was the only brick building in town--narrow, two stories, with
bright gingham curtains at the front windows. We went in for
directions to Antelope Creek Ranch. The smiling, blue-haired lady
behind the desk was the age of the hotel (circa 1910).
"You staying at that ranch?" she asked. "
We've got rooms if you
change your mind."
A cattle guard and a crude wood sign marked the
to Antelope Creek Ranch. The road in, with ruts of tank-trap
dimension, led two miles through rough range to a creek bed.
There the road forked, one branch fording the creek, the other
following the anemic stream west. A crude sign told us to take
the westward fork to "Camp."
"It's Lonesome Dove," Jack said as camp came into
A narrow A-roofed cinder-block bunkhouse jutted out from the hillside
like a pillbox, a wisp of white smoke rising from the chimney. A
kennel of odds and ends--portable corral sections, screen doors laid
sideways, a discarded pickup stock bed--held a half dozen barking
scroungy bird dogs. Mattresses aired by the bunkhouse door;
blankets riddled with fist-sized holes hung on a makeshift clothesline.
"Come on in," came a voice from deep within as Doc
lifted his fist to
Inside, the bunkhouse was dark as a cave. From the back came the
faint glow of candles, and two very strong odors--incense and dead
animal. They must have poisoned the mice and rats--now they were
trying to cover up the smell, I thought. A lanky
fellow with long gray hair and handlebar mustache stood by the
kitchen sink mixing flour in a steel bowl. At the kitchen table
sat a rotund man in a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt, framed between two
incense candles like a Buddha. His eyes were deep blue, red lines
distinct in the whites. (He was badly hung over, or the victim of
pinkeye.) His black hair was close-cropped above a round, florid
face. He too wore a mustache, full and thick but not quite
The seated Buddha was Tommy, the wild-eyed cook was
Phil. Tommy was the proprietor (holder of a one-year lease on the
ranch). Phil was a hired hand, cheerful, verbose, and no stickler
for hygiene, worrisome in light of his double duties as cook and kennel
"Fixin' to put on some pancakes, boys. Pull up
a chair and have
yourself a cup of coffee,” Phil said.
We said we'd already eaten and would only need
directions to the
section of the ranch we were to hunt. Tommy walked unsteadily to
an aerial photograph stapled to the wall.
"We're here." He pointed to an oily spot where
a finger had often
identified camp, and followed with directions to a pasture south of the
creek. Of course, he said, our pasture was loaded with quail.
"At least we won't have snake trouble considering
temperature," Jack said. "Oh, you don't have
no snake problems on this ranch . . . .”
Halfway to the truck Doc turned and shouted,
"By the way fellows, we won't be needing bunk
space. We'll be
staying in Turkey. We'll get our meals in town too." (Doc,
with a doctor’s obsession for hygiene, was not about to sleep or eat at
the Antelope's bunkhouse.)
We found Homer's wrangler friend, the ranch foreman,
Mexican-American of sixty summers. Three dun quarter horses
waited for us in his corral. As he saddled them, Jack and Doc
pumped him for information.
"I handle the cattle, not the hunting," was all he
would say. The
geldings loaded in his horse trailer on soft command.
followed the foreman's bouncing trailer, Jack said,
"There's somethin' not just right here."
The path curved through mesquite and shinnery.
In the sandy low
places we feared bottoming out, but we made it through without
trouble. We passed one of Homer's oil pumping rigs. Its
propane engine puttered in odd two-cycle rhythm, the iron horse head
bowed and rose, bowed and rose. The storage tank bore Homer’s
stencil in blue, Ferguson Oil.
"Ole Homer's praying hard the price of oil will go
up," Doc said.
“These wells don't pay their costs at current prices, but Homer's got
to keep pumping them or lose his leases."
After passage through three barbed-wire gaps, we
reached our pasture,
and the foreman unloaded our horses. "Good luck, fellows."
We watched his empty trailer bounce back down the road.
Our pasture, four thousand acres high on a plateau, sloped east to a
dry gulch and north to the namesake creek. It was covered with
shinnery, occasional mesquite and creosote trees, and very little
grass. Two straight paths, one east-west, one north-south,
crossed near its center, marking it off in quadrants.
Starting at the center, we would run a brace of dogs for an hour in
each quadrant, circling back to our truck to change dogs. The
first brace pointed a scattered covey ten minutes into their
heat. The birds rose one by one; there were only six. Around the
motte we found a dozen empty shotgun shells in the sand. Our
suspicions were confirmed. The ranch had been badly over
hunted. When we finished the third brace, the dogs had found only
four coveys, all containing no more than six birds each.
"Let's get the hell out of here--these coveys need
to be left alone,"
Jack said. "Maybe we can find someplace else to work."
"Okay," said Doc, "but why don't we run Flip a short
heat, let him
stretch a little."
So we loosed Flip to hunt alone. The ground
sloped toward the
east. A gentle breeze blew toward us.
"Pretty country. Too bad the quail have been
so abused," Jack
A quarter mile ahead, Flip coursed through the
shinnery, popping into
view occasionally between mottes, fast into the breeze, head high, his
tail whipping merrily with each long stride.
We spurred our horses to keep him in view; suddenly he pointed.
As we loped to him, the sand thrown by our horses’ hooves struck the
shinnery with a sound like jazz brushes on a snare drum.
"Now that's a real motte," Jack said. Flip
stood facing a clump
of shinnery sixty yards across, seven feet tall and thick as wool.
As Jack swung down for the flush, Doc and I rode around to the south
and west to watch for the flight of the quail.
"Deer been all around here," Jack said, noting
footprints in the sand
The motte erupted, but it wasn't with quail--and the
been made by deer. In every direction ran squalling beasts--
black, brown, gray, spotted--wild hogs! Huge sows, suckling pigs,
half-grown shoats. In an instant a cloud of dust and a lingering
smell were the only proof they had not been an apparition. Flip
had not moved a muscle.
"Why, Jack, you've got him steady to wing and shoat."
Though he'd nearly been thrown by his startled
horse, Doc, laughing
wildly, was unable to resist the pun.
On foot, Jack pushed through the thick shinnery to a cleared circle
inside the motte. It reminded of a bullfight ring.
We all heard the grunt. Across the open ring, almost hidden in
shadow at the edge of the shinnery, stood an enormous wild boar, its
long snout crowded with curling yellow tusks. Staring with
murderous eyes, the boar lowered its head, grunted again and charged
"Doc!" Jack shouted and reached for his training
pistol, firing all the
blanks without effect. The boar kept coming.
Doc and I spurred our horses through the shinnery edge and into the
clearing. Doc's horse reared, the boar feinted toward it, then
resumed its rush for Jack. A blur entered the clearing--Flip.
Flip leapt at the onrushing boar and sank his teeth into its one tender
spot, between its nostrils. Squalling, the boar dropped its
snout, trying to bring the murderous tusks to bear on Flip.
Dancing on hind legs, Flip held his grip. One swipe of the boar's
tusks would rip Flip's intestines, killing him instantly.
Doc pulled his shotgun from the scabbard and pushed
shells. He could not risk a shot at the boar for fear of hitting
Flip, who pranced like a ballet dancer, barely avoiding the tusks each
time the boar swung its head. Blood gushed from the boar’s
snout. Doc fired his shotgun in the air, distracting
the boar, which lifted
its head and ran for the shinnery, Flip still holding his grip at the
When the boar reached the shinnery, Flip would be done for, unable to
maneuver; but at the last moment, Flip released his bite and jumped
aside. The boar disappeared through the shinnery. Flip
chased briefly, barking in glee, then returned to Jack with tail
wagging. Jack knelt and pulled the bloody dog to
him. He felt for cuts,
but miraculously all the blood on Flip was the boar's.
Doc handed Jack a canteen. Jack took a swig and spit, then poured
some in his hat for Flip. Flip lapped, then looked up and seemed
Doc said, “You know, Flip’s great grandsire died
just like that—guts
ripped out by a Texas wild boar—Barn Owl Wind was his name . . .”
"Let's get the hell out of here," Jack said.
I fitted Flip in a roading harness and we took one
of Homer's bulldozed
seismography trails back to the truck. On the foreman's
instructions, we unsaddled the horses and left them grazing, returning
the tack to his corral and leaving him a check for the horses’
rental. Back at camp, Phil was building a fire in a
grimy barbecue drum; Tommy
still sat at the kitchen table, a whiskey glass before him, the scented
candles burning, but still ineffective against the dead-rodent
stench. Doc took out his checkbook to settle up.
"You didn't mention hogs," he said to Tommy.
"I was trying to tell you they was why we didn't
have no snakes when
you ran out of here in such a hurry. Come back when quail
season's over and have a boar hunt. Fellows come out here every
February from Missouri to hunt 'em with their hounds."
At the hotel we found the pert proprietress awaiting
cards and room keys ready on the desk.
"Ma'am, do you suppose there is another ranch nearby
where we could
rent bird-dog training rights for a few days? A place with no
wild hogs?" Doc asked.
"Why, sure. There's a ranch twenty miles west
that rents quail
hunting by the day. Lots of birds this year, they say. No
hogs. Most of the ranchers get rid of the hogs because they tear
up the windmills and watering tanks."
Next day we made our deal with the other
rancher. For a week the dogs found lots of birds, and
we trained on foot.
On his own, Flip developed a useful habit. Often after a dog
points quail, the birds run off before the handler arrives to
flush. (The west Texas birds were notorious runners.) When
this happens, smart dogs signal their handler. Some tick their
tails, some slowly turn their heads, some just change expression.
Flip signaled by giving forth a low yip. Then Jack touched his shoulder
to signal he was free to relocate, and Flip moved up fast. He
seemed to know just how close he could get to a run-off covey without
flushing them. Jack said that was a sure sign of Flip's good nose
Later that week, Flip added a second signal.
If he were on point
where we couldn't see him (which was often since we weren’t mounted),
he would bark--just once--every minute or so. This bark led us to
him like a beacon.
"I've heard tales of dogs that would do it, but I've
never seen one
before," Jack said.
Two days before Christmas, Doc's wife Sally and his
two sons, college
boys now, arrived in a rental car. They'd flown into
Lubbock. We sang carols around the hotel's old upright piano and
feasted on turkey--wild ones--in the hotel's little dining-room
saloon. At the end of the month, we said goodbye to our friend at
the Turkey Hotel and headed for Mississippi.
(to be continued)